Feet Itching for the Road
by ammcj062
Summary: Methos decides it's time to move on. Vague reference to a major character's death


Methos nurses his beer, swaying just enough to make it seem like he's on the far side of tipsy. There's a delightfully vague painting on the other side of the bar that's encased in glass just reflective enough for him to get a glimpse of his current Watcher. Damn Watchers. Damn Joe.

No, don't damn Joe. Bless him, the stubborn kid. Held onto life long after he should have given up and rolled over. Of course, he always had been a contrary son of a bitch. Thought Methos wouldn't see the Watcher they'd assigned to him – to _Methos, _no less, instead of newly Immortal dead-in-a-decade Adam Pierson. But then again, the Watcher is still tagging along. Maybe Joe had known Methos wouldn't do anything as long as they were friends.

He had been too soft on that grumpy old mortal. Methos takes a swig and lets himself grin, a little. Who could resist such an intriguing person? Drowning in wisdom and not afraid to shove it down a cynical old(er) bastard's throat, someone with MacLeod's twice-cursed honor but his own brand of loyalty. All in under a century, a fraction of Methos's own lifetime. Joe was one of those people that you found once a lifetime and had to hang around, damn the consequences.

Methos's watcher saunters closer, trying to get the bartender's attention. Consequences indeed. Now Joe is buried - bless his gruff overgrown heart – it's time to move on. Ditch the Watchers, find a nice little hidey hole to while away a few decades, finish grieving, take a breather, and move on once everyone's forgotten his face (again). Maybe swing back up in a year or so to steal his Watcher's chronicles and check in on MacLeod. Or better yet, pay or con Amanda into doing it for him.

Everything important has already been cleared out of his apartment and discretely shipped to a temporary location with his Watcher very much unawares, and the rest will be picked up by movers in the morning, stored away in a climate controlled unit for the next fifty years or so. Non-immortal persons are dead or not worth sticking around for. Immortals are safely ensorcelled in routine and have their own personal projects. His name is getting popular again, and the Watchers have eyes on him. It's time to get going.

Methos picks up his beer, takes another swig, and holds on to it, ostensibly to examine the label. What point of running is there when he'd leave half a bottle of good stuff lying there? He times it carefully, watching the bartender saunter over, waiting at the short interaction, tensing until the Watcher looks down for his wallet. It only takes a second for him to count out his money, but by the time he's finished Methos is already gone. Simple human nature; do you pay attention to the stationary drunk or your hard-earned cash? Cash, always.

He ducks out of the doorway, slips into the alleyway that serendipitously resides next to the bar he normally doesn't go to, heaves himself up and over the wooden fence sword and beer bottle included – not a simple feat, if he says so himself. Methos pauses once he hits the ground, letting the dust settle as he listens.

There!

Quick footsteps, going past then backtracking into the alley. The Watcher peers into the shadows, and Methos can hear the man breathing hard. His own breaths are slow and even, soft and silent. The Watcher doesn't move on and Methos thinks maybe he underestimated this one. But no, the man just curses softly after catching his breath and walks away.

Methos thinks the man wasting money on a drink he'd never get to taste is hardly enough payback, but it's a nice parting shot. He stands up, adjusts his coat, takes a swig of his beer, and saunters down the other end of the alley. At the end he turns right, heads towards the train station. First to Berlin to pick up his new identity, then off to Africa. It's been a while since his last visit, and he's been researching this perfect city with absolutely no Immortals living in it. Maybe this life he should try painting. Something new to tell the Watchers the next time they catch up with him.

And maybe he'll check in on the Dawson-now-Thomas family in a while. Maybe he'll see if there's another of those special mortals in the line and let that burgeoning Watcher discover Methos. Joe would like that.


End file.
